


When the hour is upon us

by maggief



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 09:25:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11620698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggief/pseuds/maggief
Summary: When Derek wakes he knows something is wrong. Something in the air, a strange scent or … no, something’s missing. For some reason his mind jumps immediately to Beacon Hills, but that’s absurd. There’s no way he could smell something from Beacon Hills here, all the way in the backwater of Minnesota. He shakes the thought out of his mind as he gets up to start his day. He’ll call Scott later and check up on him . . . Season 6 alternate, where Derek works on a ranch in Minnesota, but remembers Stiles when no one else does.





	1. Chapter 1

When Derek wakes he knows something is wrong. Something in the air, a strange scent or … no, something’s missing. For some reason his mind jumps immediately to Beacon Hills, but that’s absurd. There’s no way he could smell something from Beacon Hills here, all the way in the backwater of Minnesota. He shakes the thought out of his mind as he gets up to start his day. He’ll call Scott later and check up on him.

The sun is just starting to creep over the horizon, and Derek knows the horses will be getting restless soon. For a year now he’s been working on a ranch up near the Canadian border. He’d thought about heading back to New York, thoughts of renting an apartment there like he and Laura had done, going back to school. The moment he remembered the crowds though, all those people packed together, his heart had started racing like he was in the middle of a fight, and he could feel his claws starting to come out. No, New York was not the place for him, not any more.

Here though, he likes it here. At first he’d just walked, walked away from Beacon Hills, away from memories of fire and family, pain and sadness. Once he was no longer the alpha any more, there had been no reason to stay. All the bad things in his life had happened in Beacon Hills, he wasn’t going to stay there for any more. The full shift though, that had been the thing that broke him. The overwhelming memory he has of his mother is every full moon, when she would shift completely and howl at the moon. It was so stupid, so cliché, but she said it was part of the tradition that tied the Hale pack to the land, to the cycles of the tides and the moon. Cycles that have been repeating for millennia, well before the time of either man or wolf. When Derek had finally achieved the full shift, it was like that last piece of him that was tied to Beacon Hills melted away. He could take the wolf with him wherever he went, could take that last memory of his mother.

He shrugs on his jeans and snags a clean shirt without bothering to shower. He’ll be covered in sweat and grime before the end of the day anyway. He steps out of the small outhouse quietly, and heads over to the barn. Hank – the owner and Derek’s boss – had found Derek sleeping in the same outhouse last year. Little more than four stone walls at the time, Derek had stumbled across it after several days on the road without shelter. It was a damn sight better than a disused train depot and so, as snow had started to fall, Derek had slipped inside for the night. Hank had found him in the morning, of course, his dog Tess sniffing Derek out easily.

But, Hank had surprised Derek. He’d looked at him, shivering in the Minnesota winter despite his werewolf-charged body heat, and as Tess had flopped down beside him, resting her small head in his lap, Hank had seemingly taken that as a sign. He hadn’t asked Derek any questions asides from “You looking for work, son?” and it had reminded Derek so forcefully of his own father that tears had swelled in his eyes for a moment. Derek had nodded, mutely, in response, not trusting himself to speak without his voice breaking. Hank had merely whistled at Tess and left the outhouse, calling out behind him, “Come on then!” at Derek.

It had been two days before Derek spoke, telling Hank only his name and that, that he was alone now. Hank had filled the days telling him everything about the ranch, the horses, the cattle, Tess, his own son Owen, and daughter JD. Owen, whom Derek was still yet to meet, had headed to Minneapolis for college, and had stayed there for Law School. JD though, JD was a schoolteacher in the nearest town, which was … not much. A school, a gas station, grocery store, post office. Long, flat buildings designed to withstand the weight of snow in winter, and to keep the sun out in the summer.

JD and Derek had become friends over the last year. There had been an awkward moment soon after Derek had arrived, when JD had made a pass at him after a night of steady – if not heavy – drinking, on JD’s part at least. He’d fumbled away from her, stammering, and left the bar without looking back. He hadn’t slept a wink all night, skin crawling with thoughts of Kate, and Jennifer, of all the things that can hide behind a kiss, or a smile. He’d also felt bad because he’d left JD alone in the bar without walking her home, but she’d come by first thing the next morning, while Derek was still halfway through giving the horses their morning feed, and apologised. Said she’d crossed a line, and she’d hoped he could forgive her, that she knew he wasn’t interested in her that way. The silent question was left on the end of her sentence, of whether he wasn’t interested in any girls, or _anyone_ that way, but Derek let it sit. He wasn’t sure himself, to be honest.

What he is sure about is that there’s nothing strange or supernatural going on here at all. The peace here is a balm to Derek’s fractured soul, and it makes him believe that everything’s going to be ok. It’s not the life he’d imagined for himself when he was younger, but it suits him, or suits the man he is now at least. He hadn’t been sure about the animals at first. Tess had seemed to sense something inside of him that she could trust, despite the wolf, but Derek hadn’t been certain that the horses and the cattle would respond to him in the same way. He hadn’t been sure of how he would explain himself to Hank if the animals had responded badly. But his fears had been completely unfounded.

Manna, his favourite horse – a tall, proud chestnut Palomino – shuffles over to him as he fills her feedbag. She seems to sense that something is off with Derek this morning – he’s still caught up in that feeling of wrongness that’s been with him since he woke. Nothing seems amiss in the barn, and he goes about his morning tasks with the pleasing calm of routine. The rote familiarity helps to keep his mind occupied for most of the morning, but after lunch he can feel it buzzing under his skin, like nails scratching down a chalkboard, like someone trying to get his attention. He decides to saddle up Manna and take her out to the north edge of the property. Hank had been making noises about the fence needing to be repaired up there – heavy snow had bowed the wood under its weight, and with spring approaching it was the perfect time to fix it up.

There’s a chill wind as Derek rides out, but it doesn’t bother him – he’s got several layers on, including a thick flannel shirt. As he dismounts from Manna, switching the reins into his left hand, his fingers brush along the soft cuff of his sleeve, and for a moment he’s transported to another time and place. Someone else wearing flannel, long fingers a firm weight on his arm. He doesn’t… he doesn’t know who though. Neither of his sisters ever wore flannel, not Scott, nor Isaac. He feels like he’s forgotten something important. He brushes the thought out of his head as he goes about fixing the fence, but even Manna can tell that something isn’t right and she whickers softly as she waits.

That evening alone in the outhouse, it had been improved – insulated and furnished, including the installation of a small pod-bathroom – shortly after he arrived, he digs out the clunky old mobile that he only really uses to keep in touch with Cora. He brings up Scott’s number and calls him before he chickens out. It’s not that he doesn’t like Scott still – they had parted on the most amiable terms they’d ever been on – it’s just, he doesn’t like the connection to Beacon Hills, doesn’t want to remember.

It rings twice before Scott answers. “Derek, hey!”

He sounds genuinely happy to hear from him, and that lifts Derek slightly. “Hey Scott, how’s it going?”

“Good, man, you know. Getting close to graduation soon.”

“Right.” Derek doesn’t really know what to say. He never actually graduated from BHHS. Laura helped him get his GED afterwards, but he never wore the stupid gown, or received a diploma. He’s proud of Scott, that he’ll make it through, despite all the supernatural bullshit that’s been thrown his way.

“Is, is everything ok? Derek?” Scott’s voice seems small and faraway.

“Yeah, everything’s fine. Just wanted to check up on you guys.”

Derek can practically hear Scott nodding earnestly down the phone. “Yeah, sure. Do you err… want to talk to anyone else?”

There’s a name, Derek’s sure. He’s about the say it. But then, “No, no I’m good. You take care, Scott.”

Derek hangs up the phone and sinks down to sit on his bed, scrubbing his hand roughly over his face. What is wrong with him? For the whole of the rest of the week it only gets worse – the incessant feeling that Derek has forgotten something, someone. He finds himself doubling back to the stables repeatedly to check that all the stalls are properly locked, that each horse has food and water, but it doesn’t make the feeling go away.

On Friday night Derek and JD hit the only (good) bar in town together, something they do often when they’re not too swamped with work or life. It’s busy tonight, and Derek’s glad for it. The noise and the crowds – something he hates half of the time – fill his mind with a communal white noise, the kind of buzz that alcohol can’t give him. It’s good, and by the time he drops JD off at her front door and starts the walk back to the ranch, he no longer feels like he’s forgotten something.

That night, though, he dreams of pale skin and moles. For a moment he thinks he’s dreaming of JD – with her pale skin and dark hair – but he dreams of long fingers and strong, masculine shoulders. In the morning he wakes and there’s a name on the tip of his tongue, a name that seems to settle his wolf, makes him feel like he’s curled up in front of a warm fire. It’s gone the moment that Derek tries to think about it though, fluttering away like ash in the wind.

He dreams of that skin every single night that week, but he can never see their face. He can’t get it out of his mind, moles dotted along skin like stars in a constellation that only he knows, littering the neckline of a faceless man. He wonders if it’s perhaps someone he caught a glimpse of in the bar, someone seared into his subconscious in the blink of an eye. It’s the only explanation he’s got, and when Friday rolls around again, he accedes to JD’s usual invitation to hit the town without hesitation, even though he often doesn’t go two weeks in a row. She looks a little shocked at his immediate acquiescence – he normally takes at least a little persuading, if only for show.

He drinks several beers and some whiskey shots at JD’s insistence, quickly enough that he feels the buzz of alcohol running under his skin for a minute, before his metabolism catches up with him. It makes him feel human, feel something other than the werewolf he’s been his entire life, and although it’s intoxicating in the moment he’s not sure he likes it. He walks home unsettled that night, and sleeps poorly, like his body is still struggling with the alcohol. He’s still dozing fitfully when there’s a sharp knock on the door.

_Stiles._

Derek wakes fully in an instance. Stiles. It’s a name he knows more surely than his own, knows even that it’s only a nickname. Another more foreign name hovers between his teeth, wanting to be said, even though he’s only ever seen it written down. _Szczęsny_.

It takes him a moment to realise the knocking was in real life and not just his dreams, and then Derek is scrambling out of bed to answer to door. Hank is there, Tess at his side, wanting to know why Derek is running late for the riding class he teaches on Saturday mornings.

Derek apologises to Hank, and turns back into his hut to grab some jeans and a shirt. The rest of his morning is a busy maelstrom of excited horses and even more excitable children, but Derek loves mornings like this. It takes him back to his own childhood, when the Hale house would be full of all manner of siblings and cousins running around playing games and getting into trouble.

It’s not until he’s in bed again that evening that he remembers the name again. Stiles. He knows, knows that Stiles is important, but can’t think why. He’s sure it’s someone from Beacon Hills, rather than his brief time in New York with Laura, but he can’t place the name, or give it a face. It troubles him, and he wonders what else he’s forgotten. He falls into an uneasy sleep, thinking of names and faces.

He wakes up gasping halfway through the night, air catching in his throat like he’s drowning. _StilesStilesStiles_. He remembers, he knows. He can picture every mole on Stiles’ skin; hear every smartarse response that ever came from Stiles’ mouth played aloud in stereo-sound. How the hell did he forget Stiles? Why did Scott not mention him?

He scrambles for the phone on his nightstand, not caring that it’s the middle of the night. If both he and Scott had forgotten Stiles, something much bigger is at stake, something most definitely supernatural.

Scott picks up on the third ring sounding groggy. “Derek?”

“Scott, Scott. I need to talk to Stiles.” Derek’s words come out in a rush, but Scott hears him perfectly.

“Stiles? What’s a stiles?”

Derek’s heart sinks. “Not a what, a who. Don’t you know?”

“I…” Scott has no answer for Derek and that tells him everything he needs to know. Stiles has been taken, and he’s been wiped from their memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt like Stiles deserved an S name, although I don't think this is canon any more (I haven't actually been watching the real season 6, but obviously may have to if Derek is actually coming back...). I'm honestly not entirely sure what is canon anymore tbh, so if something doesn't fit, please excuse it as artistic license.


	2. Let's get out of this town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh my naive hope that I would post this straight after the last chapter. Life got in the way - as always! - but here it is. Enjoy!

It’s unsettling to step back into Beacon Hills after over a year away. In some ways it feels exactly the same as it did when Derek was still young, when his family were still alive. The same trees grow in the woods, and he can smell the scent of deep, rich pine from the centre of town. But so much has changed. The moment he crossed over into what used to be Hale territory, he had felt the pull of the local alpha, of Scott. An alpha who was not of Hale blood. He hadn’t thought it would make such a difference – he’d been here while Scott was alpha before, but it seems like the distance had made some memories fade more than others.

Something else feels different as well. It’s nothing tangible that he can put his finger on, just a lack of something. He knows it’s connected to Stiles, knows that he is something missing, but it feels bigger than just one person. It feels like the town is missing part of itself, like it’s sick or dying. He doesn’t know what to make of that, but it unsettles him more than he’d like to admit. He wonders if Stiles is the only one who’s missing, if he belonged to Beacon Hills so much that the absence of him hits even more strongly here.

Derek had thought about camping out on the old Hale ground, but after building a life amongst the living out east, if feels wrong, somehow, to come back here and settle in with the dead. He checks into a motel on the main road east out of town, and he tells himself it’s not so he can make a quick exit back to Minnesota if he needs to.

From the motel he heads over to Scott’s house, the scent telling him that he hasn’t moved since Derek has been away. Scott’s presence is strong all over Beacon Hills so it’s hard to tell where he is exactly. The pull of Scott’s alpha dominance no longer affects Derek in the same way – he’s not part of Scott’s pack any more, doesn’t have that connection to him. Derek is pack-less, but up in Minnesota, on the ranch, that’s never felt like a problem, never felt like it’s something he’s needed. He feels strangely bereft to be in Beacon Hills without a pack though, something deeply wrong down inside to be a lone wolf within his own territory.

He thinks of Laura, of her dark hair and bright, sarcastic smile. He thinks of her reassuring him when she left New York, _I’ll only be gone for a few days. It’s still our territory Derek, I need to see what’s wrong_. It’s not his territory any more, not his, or Laura’s, or any Hale’s. The thought feels heavy in his throat and he has to stand for a moment at the end of Scott’s drive, wavering on the road, unsure he can face Scott right now.

Then he remembers Stiles, remembers what’s missing, and knows he can’t stay out here on the street forever, not matter how heavy the memories are, pressing down on him.

He’s barely knocked once when the door swings open to reveal Scott on the other side. In the living room beyond Lydia and Liam sit. Derek nods at them mutely; he has no connection with Liam, but Lydia had often been a voice of reason when needed, someone to temper Stiles’ more reckless instincts.

“Derek, how was the drive?” Scott asks amiably, pulling him in for a quick hug.

It’s one-armed and brief, but it’s too much, too close, and Derek’s wolf feels like snarling at him. He tampers it down ruthlessly and clears his throat.

“Yes, fine. It was fine.” God, when did he become so polite? He feels so awkward inside his own skin back in Beacon Hills. He already misses the wide open plains of Minnesota, the ease of keeping mostly horses for company.

He briefly explains to the group what’s brought him here, what he’s feeling, the wrongness of it. Liam and Scott are both looking at him impassively, but Lydia is nodding along, lips pursed tight. _She feels it too_.

“So, who is it? Who are we missing?” Scott asks, the disbelieving challenge evident in his voice.

Derek isn’t sure how to explain who Stiles was. The heart of this pack? Your best friend, Scott. And it isn’t easier to explain what Stiles was to him, personally. The one who could always get through to him? The one who was always something, but never quite _something_ , because Derek couldn’t allow himself to burden Stiles in that way, with the weight of who he is, and everything he’s done.

But, before he’s figured out how to explain in a way that will make sense (what use is a name for someone you don’t remember, after all?), Lydia answers for him:

“ _Stiles._ ”

Her voice is barely more than a whisper, but the room is full of werewolves and they all hear her perfectly. Derek turns to her, eyes wide. She knows.

“I’ve felt it too,” she says, turning to him, “kept feeling like I’d forgotten my keys but nothing I did would make it go away.”

Derek starts grilling her for what she remembers, what she knows, and as they talk over each other Scott and Liam draw in a little closer. It’s clear that the two are not convinced, but by the time Derek and Lydia have puzzled over everything they can recall, Scott is willing to give them a chance.

“Ok, so how do we go about finding a missing person?”

****

They agree to split into groups. Derek will go to see Deaton, Scott and Lydia will go talk to the Sheriff, and Liam is going to head to the school, see if there are any records relating to Stiles there. Lydia had remembered that Sheriff Stilinski is Stiles’ father after Derek had mentioned Stiles’ full — real — name, but they have no idea if the Sheriff will talk to them. If he doesn’t remember having a son, why would he be interested in talking to a couple of teenagers?

Derek tries to puzzle out what has been wiped away just like Stiles – have all the things that Stiles was involved in, all the supernatural disasters he helped avoid – been wiped from existence as well? Have they just been hidden from memory, or are they gone forever, Stiles along with them?

If he can remember all those things though, the good and the bad, surely they still exist somewhere? Locked away and waiting to come out. Now that he knows him, he can’t imagine a world in which Stiles doesn’t exist.

When they meet again later, Derek is dismayed to hear that the Sheriff has no recollection of having a son, or even of being married, as if the memory of Claudia Stilinski was too strong a tie to the missing teenager. It makes sense, but it discourages Derek further — there are no other people missing, as far as the Sheriff is aware. It doesn’t count for much, considering they probably wouldn’t be remembered if they were, but if it is only Stiles then it hints at some malice that’s targeting Scott’s pack, that’s targeted Stiles specifically. And really, if it’s only one person, would they bother keeping him alive?

Deaton, despite being his cryptic self, had actually been fairly helpful. It isn’t something he’s come across before, but there are a few ideas – a few spells – that he thinks might be able to connect them to what’s missing, especially since the cause _must_ be supernatural. It makes Derek breathe easier, and as he heads back to his motel for the night, the buzzing sensation that’s been running under his skin for the past few days finally quiets enough to allow him to sleep.

His dreams are disjointed and disturbing, what he remembers of them anyway. There are flashes of familiar shoulders, the back of a head, but never the face, and slowly the figure gets further and further away even as Derek tries to reach out, calling him back.

He wakes up sweaty, heart racing, fingers clutching tightly onto nothing but air. It’s hours before dawn still — Derek’s barely been asleep for two hours — but he knows sleep won’t come again this night. Instead, he gets dressed and heads out towards the preserve, something he used to do years ago, back when Beacon Hills felt safe, back when Beacon Hills meant family.

He doesn’t shift, not even partially, just enjoys the feeling of being alone under the canopy of the trees and stars above. He remembers one evening out here with the pack — years ago now — a rare evening when everyone was getting along. Boyd, Erica, Isaac, Stiles, Scott and Derek. No one was angry, no one resentful of the wolf they’d become, and the lone human of Stiles mixed in with them, the link between the wolves they were now, and the humans they were still. Derek remembers, he remembers looking across at Stiles over the campfire they’d made, seeing the flames reflected in his amber eyes and just knowing that Stiles belonged in his pack (belonged to _him_ , his traitorous mind supplies). As if he could see the pack bond as a physical connection stretching between them.

He remembers that connection now, feels the bond between him and Stiles as a live wire between them, something buzzing with static - not clear, but not gone either.

 _He’s still here_.

He knows it, knows that Stiles has not left the Beacon Hills territory, knows that he isn’t dead. The connection isn’t a tangible thing, but Derek feels the memory of Stiles as a hand on his shoulder, gripping tight to ground him to this world.

Under the safety of the trees, where the memories of his family don’t smell like smoke and pain, Derek feels hopeful, his wolf calm and determined.

****

By the time he returns to the motel to face the day he feels calm and rested, despite his lack of sleep. He heads over to Scott’s like they’d planned, ready to perform the spell that Deaton had suggested to them. It’s not ideal — the spell calls for a Spark, and Stiles is one of the only Sparks Derek has ever come across. They’re increasingly rare in the modern world, even back when he’d been little, the power of Sparks had been declining.

Their pack had had one — an ageing old woman originally from New Mexico — Elena, but she had died when Derek was only 10 years old. When he’d asked his mother why they didn’t get a new Spark, she’d sat him down and explained that ‘the old ways’ didn’t hold as much sway any more. In a world where electricity was the dominate source of power, the supernatural forces that channeled prehistoric power were dying out — losing themselves in the buzz of modern technology.

Sparks weren’t being born any more, and it had taken Derek a while to realise how special that made Stiles, made him wonder how much Claudia Stillinski had known about the supernatural world.

So, a Spark was one of the ingredients on Deaton’s list that they were missing, but thankfully it was the only one. And in some ways, a banshee was akin to a Spark — both used old power to connect with others, whether that was spiritually, mentally, or metaphysically. Lydia would have to do.

 _Bark of ash and leaf of rowan,_  
_Alpha’s blood and speck of pollen._  
_What once was lost now may be found_  
_With this mix of salt and ground._

They’re not sure which alpha counts. Scott is adamant that Stiles belongs to his pack — they’re practically brothers, and they always have been, and Scott is the alpha of the Beacon Hills territory, the territory that Stiles belongs to. But Derek, Derek has a bit more trust in gut feelings nowadays. He’s not an alpha any more, but he was _Stiles’ alpha_. After Kate, and after he’d lost Laura, it had taken a while to start listening to himself again. He’d been plagued with doubt and fear, but working out in Minnesota has been good for him. Horses don’t listen to logic, Tess doesn’t listen to logic. They’re animals, they work with instinct. And Derek knows, instinctually, the Stiles always has been — and always will be — part of Derek’s pack.

In the end it’s Lydia who offers a compromise. Some quick research on her behalf suggests that the extra blood in the mix won’t do an harm, so they put both in. Using a sharp silver (always silver) knife, Derek cuts a thin steak up his left arm. He watches the blood blossom for a moment before holding it over the copper pot they’ve got prepared.

The ash and the rowan both come from within the territory - Deaton had said that this should increase the spell’s potency if it had personal links to the missing person. They choose poppies for the pollen — not least because they signify remembrance, but also because they grow in the woods behind the Stilinski house, entwined with a few stray zinnia. Derek remembers a house full of colourful zinnia as a child, and wonders what it means for these two to grow together. He crushes the pollen from a single zinnia flower into the mix as well.

The next part is the hardest. They have to offer a memory of the forgotten into the pot. Liam still has no recollection of Stiles, but that’s hardly surprising — the two weren’t close. Scott tells a story of them both as small children, when Scott had fallen over and skinned his knee and Stiles — not wanting his friend to feel hard done by — had deliberately fallen over and done the same to himself. Lydia offers a soft and quiet night studying together, a night she had once thought could maybe mean something else, but that has now settled into her memory as a night that defines their friendship. Quiet support, and always working together.

Derek’s memory is so overcrowded with thoughts of Stiles that he’s not even sure what’s real anymore and what’s imagined. In the end, he picks something similar to Lydia’s. A late night, the two of them alone in Derek’s loft, and the warm argument they’d had over whether the newly-resident creatures near the old Hale property were piskies or fairies. There had been a moment when they’d stared at each other for slightly too long, a moment where… Where something happened, but something else never quite began.

Derek offers this story as the thing he knows has been missing from his life, even whilst Stiles was still among them. It feels right.

Lydia takes over after that, as their stand in for a Spark. She says a few lines in Latin, throws in the final ingredient — some salt — and then… then they wait.

It’s excruciating. Derek is certain that time has stopped more than once whilst they’ve been sitting here, and nothing’s happened. They don’t even know what’s meant to happen, whether Stiles will just suddenly _appear_ or what.

It happens so gradually that Derek doesn’t even notice at first. Maybe it’s because he’d retained the most memories of Stiles, that as the rest are slowly returned to him, they slot in so seamlessly that it feels as natural as breathing.

It takes all of them a while to notice that the house around them is changing as well. There are more photos appearing on the wall, photos of Stiles and Claudia. The fabric of the sofas changes, and an old stain appears on the carpet near the fireplace. The house slowly starts to look like somewhere that’s been lived in — and loved — by more than just one old bachelor who spends more time at the police station than home.

Derek is staring unwaveringly at a photo of Stiles on the mantelpiece. It in, Stiles and Scott have their arms slung around each other, both beaming at the camera. Derek took that photo, remembers the stupid joke that Stiles had told moments before, and his own gruff response. Derek remembers everything about that day, including the way Stiles had smelt in the late autumn sunshine.

A scent that Derek can smell _right now_. He looks up at the same time Scott does — both of them recognising the scent of Stiles on the wind. It should be weird, hell it’s definitely weird to anybody who isn’t a werewolf, but to a pack, it just feels normal. Scott and Derek are out the door before Liam and Lydia even realise something’s up.

He’s close, he’s so damn close. The run into the preserve, following the scent of Stiles without stopping for anything.

And suddenly he’s there in front of them. Stiles looks a little thin, and there are dark circles under his eyes, but he’s there, he’s real, he exists.

And that’s it. After all the anger, pain, and bloodshed that Derek has endured over the years, somehow just somehow, it feels right that this should be so easy. As if, of course finding Stiles would be straightforward, like the universe knew how it was meant to be and couldn’t fight it.

The simplicity of it is a warm embrace around Derek’s heart, and — as he reaches Stiles first — he draws him into a bone crushing hug that he’s unsure he ever wants to end.

“Stiles, Stiles, Stiles. _Szczęsny_.”

“Woah, hey there big guy.” Stiles’ voice sounds a little scratchy, unused, but the sound of it is like fucking music to Derek, like the greatest symphony ever composed. “Easy on the Polish there.”

Stiles’ tone is light and teasing, but there’s an undercurrent to it, like he knows what Derek’s been going through, like he can hear how loudly Derek’s heart is pounding in his chest as he realises how close he was to losing Stiles for good.

Scott joins them a moment later, piling in on the hug like they’re one big happy family, like they’re pack.

Stiles though, Stiles only has eyes for Derek as well. And, as Scott pulls away again, he reaches up a trembling hand towards Derek’s face, softly tracing the outline of the beard he finds there.

“I like the scruff. What are you, some kind of mountain man now?”

Derek doesn’t have an answer, still hasn’t found his voice which is trapped somewhere in his throat.

Derek’s heart is beating faster than a hummingbird’s and he doesn’t know what to say. Stiles is here, really here, and Derek knows knows knows, more certainly than anything, the truth he’s been denying for so long. Stiles is an adult now, and destruction no longer follows Derek around like a curse.

Maybe. Just Maybe.

Stiles takes the decision away from him before he can even fully process all the thoughts swirling around in his head. He’s almost as tall as Derek now, but he still has to reach slightly to slot his lips against Derek’s.

It’s too much, and not enough, his whole world, and only the beginning all at once. He could die now and he’d die happy, or he could spend the rest of his life kissing Stiles and it still wouldn’t be enough. It feels so right, that Derek’s not even sure how his life made sense until now.

They have a lot to talk about, he knows, but he’s also sure — he’s never going to lose Stiles, ever again.

****

It’s not until years later, after Stiles has completed his undergraduate and masters courses at UMN, that Deaton lets the truth slip whilst they are back visiting Beacon Hills. The spell he had them perform, it was only possible — only — with the blood of the missing’s soulmate added to the mix. The power of destiny, Deaton had told Stiles, truly was greater than any supernatural force.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! Feel free to swing by my [tumblr](http://iameverywhere.tumblr.com) and say hi!
> 
> The title of this fic is from Rob Thomas' [Now Comes the Night](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QePHBDMPt2M), which was some of the inspiration for this fic - "no, you will not be forgotten". 
> 
> The title of this chapter comes from Kygo, [This Town](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0pwttmAYCTw), which captures the wistfulness of Derek's thoughts, I feel.


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